


blood will tell

by corvus_corvus



Series: Corvus' Banned Together 2020 Submissions [5]
Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Brief mentions of alcoholism, Brief mentions of corporal punishment, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Soldiers, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Fantasy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vague and questionable use of alchemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27763102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvus_corvus/pseuds/corvus_corvus
Summary: A scholar facing death threats has called sanctuary at a church three hours south. Maka is tasked to get him out and deliver him to Morir, a haven for both human and Otherworldly in the middle of a desert. It’s a simple enough job.At least it would be if Maka could stop the all arguing and bleeding and magicking and damnsmilingbetween her and her charge.
Relationships: Maka Albarn/Soul Eater Evans
Series: Corvus' Banned Together 2020 Submissions [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860889
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	blood will tell

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the prompt Fantasy as a submission to Banned Together Bingo 2020. I still find it absurdly funny that any stories were ever banned for containing fantasy elements. Please enjoy this magical romp!

Maka is born Grigori. It is not her choice, or anyone else’s; it simply is.

Maka is _raised_ to fight. It’s not what her father wants for her—a veteran of the high guard would wish that life on no one—or probably what her absentee mother would have wanted, but it seems to be in her blood, picking fights on the street in a flurry of uncontrollable fists. In the end, her father concedes. If she is going to pursue trouble and combat and chaos, he cannot stop her and the fire that hones the steel in her eyes. What he can do, is train her in hopes she will return to him safely.

She’s fourteen and shaking in her standard-issue combat boots, armor and responsibility weighing heavy on her shoulders. It’s the first day of training for Grigori foot-soldiers, and they demand rigorous obedience. 

More specifically, they demand she kill.

Her commanding officer orders each of the new recruits slay a marsh caudata for an audience of their peers. At just a swords-length long and young enough that its roars end in sparks more than flames, the Otherworldly creature is not a threat to anyone who has already qualified to be trained. It’s tradition, they say. To give you a taste of strength, to know you are capable of all the trials this path will throw at you. To build community with those around you as you share a common goal and face a common threat.

When it is Maka’s turn, she grips her sword tight and does not hesitate. The other warriors, her new family, praise her determination.

Before she knows it, she is sixteen and entering the high guard with acclaim from all her mentors. When she dons that feather-light armor, the white cloak, and cuts her hair severely short, Maka has learned that fighting is the only way to protect. That the things she needs to protect people from are anything not strictly human.

Her father cries when he hears of her appointment, though whether it is from pride, fear, or regret, Maka couldn’t say.

“I’ll be fighting the Otherworld, stopping them from using their magic to kill us all. Aren’t you proud?”

“Oh, Maka,” he won’t even look at her, head in hands. “You don’t understand, there is no other; it’s our world, too. I should’ve never done this, never let you train for—”

“Let me?” she fumes, “Since when do you get to decide my life for me? I’m pretty sure you gave up on guiding when you made the tavern your new home and wine your new lover. I have not worked this hard just to be dismissed again.”

“Please listen.”

She ignores him. “And you should be grateful that I won’t turn you in for what you just said.” Maka lowers her voice, knowing her mercy may not extend to their neighbors. “No other? Then what, the Otherworldly and their spells and their demon covenants and their _threat_ are all figments of this whole land’s imagination?”

“No, but they’re—”

Maka is already gone. She does not speak to her father again.

By twenty-three, she has seen enough to be unfazed at the sight of blood—whether Otherworldly in color or the red of humans practicing the arcane. Each place, each being so different that her studies still fail her on occasion. Maka has hunted so many more creatures than she knew existed that she cannot wait until the Grigori finally end the vast Otherworld lineages that plague these lands. Her desires have not changed: she still wants to protect, even if she has been convinced preemptive attack may be the only way to succeed.

When Maka and her company are scouting their next assignment, one of her party remarks just how similar the towns in this region look to their own, especially coming from their last target’s underground cities. “My mentor used to tell me the Otherworldly are infinitely cunning,” Maka assures, “Don’t let the architecture fool you into thinking they are like us.” They nod at her inherited wisdom and proceed. She feels secure and certain herself; she did not choose this path to cause harm.

So when they attack and she sees pale pink hair framing the softest, most frightened face, Maka’s world crumbles. They cast a circular barrier between them as soon as they see Maka’s sword and she is shaken, but she does not hesitate, she doesn’t she doesn’t she doesn’t. 

It’s over.

That’s how she gets to this moment: twenty-eight cycles old and jaded as can be, looking for work while she passes through a town in south Eibon. She gets her next job from a desperate-looking woman in purple and black outside the tavern. 

More coin is always welcome in her pocket, and she has no reason to stay in this town now that her last gig ended yesterday evening. Maka has been spending her lazy day near the tavern’s door eavesdropping on the pleading from the woman outside. Something about a scholar and some death threats. Not a particularly unusual concern for the kind of noble or rich-blooded people who can afford to be in such positions, but Maka has counted seven people turn the woman down for no discernible reason. It piques her curiosity enough that when night starts to fall and the woman is still begging all the dangerous-looking folk for help with a voice gone hoarse, Maka clears up her tab, gathers her weapons, and approaches the woman.

Readjusting the halberd slung across her back, Maka gets right to the point. “You’ve been out here for hours. What’s so important to you and how much will you pay?” When she looks in the woman’s eyes, she can tell that she’s been crying. It makes Maka regret her words; faithless as she is, Maka finds it all too easy to forget that much of her work puts her in contact with frightened people. People who, unlike her, do not deal in violence on a daily basis. People of the sort she used to train to protect.

“A friend of a friend needs protection while they travel to a safer location,” she straightens her posture, “I can’t say too much in public, but the people who want them dead have ties to the Grigori. It’s a dangerous job.”

Ah, there’s why so many other mercenaries—even ones she recognizes from past jobs in this town—are turning this woman down. Maka’s not from around here, though, and maybe it wouldn’t be the first time she’s faced off with the Grigori herself. It’s not the kind of job she should probably take on a whim like this, but escorting powerful people tends to pay well. “They’re all dangerous jobs,” Maka replies, trying to smile this time. “I can handle it.”

The woman clasps her hands together and her eyes water. “Really? You’ll help?”

Maka nods, “We’ll need to discuss payment first. What are you offering?”

“Whatever it takes. We’re running out of time and you’re the only option.”

“That’s a poor bargaining technique.” Maka can’t help herself, some part of her even wanting to protect this stranger from her own words.

“I know how to bargain,” the woman’s eyes go steely, “but I don’t want to bargain over someone’s life.”

“I understand.” And Maka truly does. “Let’s get moving. We can discuss details on the road.”

—

A scholar facing death threats has called sanctuary at a church three hours south. Maka is tasked to get him out and deliver him to Morir, a haven for both human and Otherworldly in the middle of a desert. It’s a simple enough job.

Or at least that’s what Maka thinks until she arrives at the church, a mob across the way waiting and armed. Many look like townsfolk, some have the posture of trained fighters, and two wear the white cloaks she skips entire towns to avoid. How _is_ she going to get him out of here?

The woman who hired her, Blair, looks equally nervous as she guides Maka into the main hall. Maka is just about to ask if this is a strange joke somehow, because two Grigori high guard are outside and there is no one in this cold church filled to the brim with candles. Right as she opens her mouth, Blair turns a corner. When Maka follows, she sees what might pass as a masked priest giving funeral rites to a mess of hair sitting on a piano bench.

Maka’s impressions are shaken before introductions can start. She was expecting someone serious and withdrawn, sure, but also haughty and aged and carefully groomed. The person Blair gestures towards is instead a young man with pale pale hair, dark dark eyes, and a grey complexion that makes him look like he hasn’t felt well in years. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes widen when he she’s introduced as the mercenary hired to escort him. It’s fleeting, though, before he’s back to a carefully schooled look of cool disinterest. At least the scholar isn’t attacking her legitimacy in a way she often faces in this patriarchal realm. So he’s polite. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

“This is Soul Evans, an alchemist from the northeast.” Maka feels her stomach drop. That’s news. And weirdly masked or not, what kind of priest protects someone practicing the occult?

Maka levels a glare at Blair. “I thought you said he was a scholar.” 

“Sure, sure,” Blair giggles, “a scholar of alchemy.” Maka rolls her eyes, she should’ve known better than to pity someone. And an alchemist? Death threats are standard occupational hazard for mercenaries, but Maka’s learned to steer clear of the occult the hard way.

The alchemist—Soul, she corrects in her head—scowls. “You shouldn’t have lied, Blair.”

“Oh, please. That’s almost funny coming from you,” Blair scolds. Maka takes note that Soul might not deserve her trust. Great. “Besides, do you know how hard it was to get someone who was willing to stand against the Grigori?” 

“You said you had a friend who could help. This is a hired killer.” The words don’t sting, Maka notices, as he’s correct. She hasn’t dealt with a maybe-pacifist in a long time. This is turning into quite the job. Soul sighs, “Maybe I shouldn’t do this. I’m not—”

Blair protests first. “You can’t just let them kill you, Soul.”

“And I cannot keep you safe here indefinitely,” the masked priest adds. “I am truly sorry.”

“It’s not a problem,” Maka lies, “I just need to be paid in full. Now.”

Blair nods and follows Maka down the hallway they originally entered from. “You must know I don’t have the money,” Blair pouts. “You heard him, though. He’s just going to give up and let himself get killed. I can’t let him.”

“I don’t care about the money,” Maka whispers, “this is more than I agreed to, Blair.”

She frowns and Maka gives her time to weigh her replies. Blair starts slowly, “I know. Look, I don’t know Soul very well, but he deserves to live.”

“He will. I always do my job,” Maka defends.

Blair continues like Maka never spoke. “His work has helped a lot of people. I just,” she pauses, twisting the skin-tight metal cuff on her wrist. “I just need you to take this job and I need you to take it seriously. I’ll figure out the money while you’re traveling.” In truth, Maka can’t even find it in herself to be offended. It’s not her work ethic in question. What Blair is asking, what Blair won’t voice, is concerns that Maka can walk away right now and sell their secrets. That even if she takes the job, she can be bought out by the influential Grigori. That she won’t be willing to die to do her job, to keep him safe. Maka thinks it’s fair; Blair has no reason to trust her. But Maka knew from the moment she saw the dark circles under Soul’s eyes and the humble hunch of his shoulders that she would protect him with her dying breath. This is not the noble scholar she expected. He looks like, his eyes look too much like—

“You have my word. Soul will be safe with me until we reach Morir.”

—

“So what do you wish to be called, o great warrior, my savior from on high?” Soul rolls his eyes. He’s throwing rations into his pack, enough that she questions his ability to carry it. 

She scoffs, “Call me what I am: a ranger. And you can dial it way back with the attitude, thanks. I’m not your enemy.”

“But you don’t deny being a celestial savior.”

Screw trying to be professional. He’s not worth it. “Blair found me in a tavern, _o great alchemist_.”

Soul doesn’t succeed in stifling his laugh, so it surfaces like a cough with somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. “Well at least I know you have a sense of humor,” he mumbles.

“Trying to kill him already?” Blair laughs from over her shoulder. “He might just keel over if you make him smile too much. He isn’t used to it.”

“Shut up,” Soul groans.

“Let’s go over our route to Morir,” Maka directs, “I want you both to know what I’m planning in case Soul somehow ends up on his own.”

He crosses his arms, “I’d better not.”

Maka cuts to the point, “If there’s any reason I can’t get us both out of trouble, I _will_ send you forward on your own. There’s no need for both of us to die. I am in charge of protecting you.” Soul’s posture tightens, and Maka lets the tension linger for a moment. “Now that we’re on the same page, here’s the map.” Leaning over the table, she runs a finger across the dark blue trail marked minutes ago. “We’ll be staying in human-majority areas even when it might force us to add a day or two to the journey. This should keep us away from Grigori forces for two reasons: we won’t run into the standard patrols of Otherworldly territories, and it’s not where anyone hunting you will expect to look.” 

“What if that doesn’t work?” All eyes snap to Soul. He stammers through his reply, “I mean it makes sense. But if you’re wrong there’s a lot of people that could be in danger or could know I’m not supposed to be there. Seems risky.”

She’s surprised, though Maka supposes she shouldn’t be. Alchemy or no, being a scholar of anything must mean he has some wit. “I know you practice Otherworldly craft, but you are still human, so no one should be able to tell.” Soul shifts his weight under Maka’s sharp gaze. “Unless you are planning something.”

“I’m not.”

“Good. Though while we’re talking about it, let’s make that a rule. No spells while you’re with me. We don’t need more trouble.”

He scoffs, “They aren’t spells.”

Both Maka and Blair roll their eyes at that. “Fine,” Maka sighs as Blair bops him on the head, “no _alchemy_. Deal?”

“Deal,” Soul nods.

“You’re right, though,” Maka continues, reaching for her pack, “it’s a risk passing through human towns. Going through Otherworldly territory is a guarantee of Grigori interception, and we can’t survive that. I admit my route is the lesser of two evils at best.” Her oldest dagger—from her father and sharpened with bitter memories—lies sheathed at the bottom of her pack. Without ceremony, she pushes the weapon into Soul’s grasp and watches him fumble. She wonders, not for the first time, how in the world she is going to protect someone who is uncomfortable around blades.

Staring at the weapon in his hands, Soul gathers his thoughts. “Then I want to make a deal with you, mercenary.” Maka raises her eyebrows. “If we get in a situation where bystanders could get hurt, you get them out of danger first. Not me.” Blair immediately argues with him, but Soul stays quiet. 

Just when Maka didn’t think this alchemist could get any stranger, she feels herself respecting his conviction. By the powers that be, Maka is getting soft. She looks back and forth between Soul and Blair. Maka agrees with Soul in principle, but her commitment to the job—to Blair—will be difficult to reconcile with this agreement. Still, she doesn’t see Soul letting this go, his stubbornness one of the few traits he’s revealed since they’ve met. And it is Soul that she’ll be stuck with for this journey, not Blair.

“Okay. Deal.” Blair’s eyes snap to Maka’s, and Maka hopes she can see the apology on her face.

Soul’s mouth twists into something sour, tucking the dagger into his coat.

“What was that?” Maka can’t hear the way he mumbles, and she can’t read his lips like this, either.

“Nothing.” Maka frowns at him. Soul simply smirks and hefts his pack on to his shoulders with more ease than Maka expected. “Let’s hit the road.”

Soul turns to Blair, and for the first time Maka sees him let down his defenses. Without the scowling snark, exhaustion and vulnerability rule his gaze. “Thank you, Blair” Soul bows, and Maka looks away. It feels like prying into that which does not belong to her. She whips back around when she hears a yelp, hand already on the kinfe at her hip. Instead of the horrors her instincts anticipate, she sees Soul swept up in a crushing hug while Blair kisses his forehead. The only horror here is the look of mortification on Soul’s face. Maka can’t hold back her smile.

Blair follows them to the back of the church silently, footfalls taking the place of farewells.

Maka reaches for the worn door handle, mind racing with contingency plans in case the mob already has people stationed at the back door. Or worse, people hiding in the woods she hopes to whisk the alchemist off to.

“Mercenary.”

Maka pauses. “Yes?”

“Thank you for everything.” Maka turns to find Soul’s dark eyes filled with fear while Blair stands, hands clasped, at the end of the hallway. Maka nods and returns her focus to the door.

“Stay close,” she whispers to Soul, “don’t panic, and keep your hand on my shoulder unless I tell you otherwise. I want to know where you are.” His left hand settles lightly on her shoulder, so she places her hand over his and clasps it tighter. She can feel him shiver, but his grip holds firm.

The church door squeaks and twigs crunch beneath their feet and the undergrowth rustles with a vengeance, but they are not intercepted. Maka and Soul escape into the shadowed forest, and Maka almost considers thanking divinities she doesn’t even believe in.

“See, we’re fine,” she whispers after a half-day of walking in silence. Soul takes a deep breath and squeezes her shoulder tighter.

—

The first time they have to pass through a town Maka decides they should also check what supplies this area has to offer. “Are you sure?” Soul hasn’t looked calm since they left the church, though Maka can’t blame him. Occult practitioner or not, it doesn’t seem like confrontation and running for his life are something he’s well versed in. “Aren’t we trying to avoid people?”

“We’re two days out from our last stop, so we should be able to afford a quick visit. We’ll just step into the main shop and then be back on the road.” Soul’s frown deepens, but he follows her into town without another word. Lucky for them, it’s a small gathering of buildings occupied by few. Maka watches Soul’s shoulders stiffen when a townsperson nods at them, the way he won’t look at anyone, the way he grabs one of his wrists and twists the leather of his gloves. Analyzing odd behavior will have to come later, though, for she agrees with his interest in avoiding as many people and towns as feasible. She browses medical supplies first and food second, Soul trailing after her like a sulking puppy.

Maka counts to three and extends the olive branch. “How do you feel about dried venison?”

“Pretty sure we have food already.” He tilts his head, and the sulking puppy image is complete.

“We do, but we’ve got a ways to go. I’m telling you from experience that having different food will be all you can think about in—”

“Excuse me, you two.” Soul’s eyes go wide, but Maka knows how to lead. She turns around to find the shop clerk leaning over a shelf behind them.

“Hello,” she greets, forcibly fighting the instinct to move her hand to a weapon.

“You hunt monsters, Otherworldly things.” Maka opens her mouth to disagree, but it’s a statement not a question. “I see your weapons. And the armor. You here to hunt the witch?”

“No—”

“What witch?” Maka snaps her gaze to Soul, and he has the gall to look down his nose at her. If she wasn’t hired to prevent him from being stabbed, she’d do it herself here and now.

“The metal witch, back in the hills to the north,” the clerk explains. “Able to pull metal right out of the ground and make it dance like it’s alive without a touch. May have been human once, but they’re all magic now, and it’s on Otherworldly ground, even if just barely.”

“Really?”

Maka slaps a hand against Soul’s back and feels him flinch. “We aren’t hunters, sorry. Just passing through. We’ll take this, though,” she hands over a wrap of dried food. The clerk helps them through the trade of coins and items with a wary look, and Maka and Soul are on their way out of town in moments.

Back in the cover of the woods, she confronts him. “Aren’t we trying to avoid people?” Maka echoes, hissing.

Soul shrugs, “I guess gathering information in local threats is beyond the pay grade of a mercenary.”

“You are insufferable,” she complains, “I’m the one with experience here, why do you insist on being contrary?”

“Why do you insist on being so rough with everyone? Is this why you wander around alone hurting things?” His cool demeanor dissolves into irritation, and between her own rage Maka notes it’s probably the most expressive she’s ever seen him.

They don’t speak until the next morning. And despite being on speaking terms, Maka and Soul take several more days before addressing the outburst at all. Calling it an apology is probably too strong.

“I’m sorry if you don’t like the way I do things, but I’m trying to keep you safe.” Maka tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Believe it or not, I’ve gotten much mellower. I guess I still have a lot of work to do.”

“Seriously?” Soul asks, “How intense were you?”

“Too intense. It’s a process of recovery.”

“Wow, and here I thought I was difficult.”

“You are.”

He huffs, “I just don’t want to put my life before other people. I’m not going to stop just because there’s a bounty on my head.”

“There’s a bounty? The high guard must have orders to find you, then,” Soul bites his lip. “How long are you going to keep hiding things from me?”

“Sorry.”

She sighs, “I do know what I’m doing. You do realize that years ago my job was to kill people like you, right?”

“Um, no.” Maka is surprised to see him blanch. He’s never been pale, but he looks perpetually ill so she didn’t think he could look, well, sicker? She feels a little guilty.

“Oh,” she turns bright red, “I guess you didn’t have reason to. Well now you do.” She can’t meet his eyes, he looks so so scared. And it’s because of her. And now her breathing’s getting faster and she’s not here at all, she’s there instead remembering terrified eyes and breaking down defensive magic. She hadn’t even know there was defensive magic. It didn’t hurt anyone, how could it be wrong? How could they be—

“Hey,” she hears distantly, “you okay?” And she’s not, but she tries to tell him she is. Maka must not manage it, though, because he slowly takes one of her hands and holds it in his, gloved fingers moving to her wrist to gauge her pulse. “You need to breathe, like really breathe,” his voice echoes to her. Its’ still far away—half a decade away, to be exact. Those sad, alarmed eyes loom closer, and for a moment it’s worse. “Hey,” he whispers softer than before. The quiet breaks through, and she can see him again. Soul is sitting in front of her, not anyone else.

On reflex, the apology rolls off her tongue. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s no problem.” He rubs his thumb in small circles where their hands are clasped. Maka can tell it’s meant to soothe, yet she’s not sure if it’s working. Her mouth isn’t really working either until she manages to ask a question.

“How did you, um?” Ugh. She doesn’t even know what to ask.

They must be on the same wavelength, however, because he answers her question anyways. “You’re not the first person I’ve seen get lost like that.” It’s all he says, and for now it is enough for Maka. Too ashamed to look him in the eyes, Maka focuses on his hands. She doesn’t even think she has seen him without gloves. They’re always tucked into long sleeves, and he keeps them tugged down even when she can see him sweating in the humid forest heat. It’s not unusual, she wears some too. What is unusual is how careful he seems to be.

Once again, his voice snaps Maka back to the present. “I don’t want to freak you out again, but I have to ask. Why are you doing this?” His fingers are back on her pulse, anticipating. The word shame doesn’t suffice.

“What?”

“Why help me? It doesn’t seem like you’d want to.” Soul trails off.

“No real reason. It’s a job. I do try to avoid Otherworldly trouble now—on either side.”

Soul pulls back and removes one of his gloves. This time he feels her pulse skin on skin, and seems satisfied enough to let her go. She rubs her own wrist while watching close as Soul’s perfectly human hand gets covered again by leather; instantly, Maka is ashamed of her paranoia.

“But Blair lied about me,” he sighs. Maka nods. “Why not say no then?” 

“I couldn’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“You were too,” _scared, resigned, willing to die_ , “pitiful.” She deflects. “What was a wuss like you going to do about the mob outside?” 

Soul grouses. He’s not a good liar, but the look her gives her says she isn’t either.

Their journey lapses back into soft quietude, and Maka is grateful. As much as Soul may grate on her nerves, it’s much easier to travel with someone on good terms rather than to have to fight him at every turn.

Once they reach the plains of Ryd, they encounter another traveler. They insist on sticking together for safe passage through the Otherworldly gorge to the west, and neither Maka or Soul can provide a good enough reason to convince the traveler otherwise. By the time they make camp, Maka can still count the number of things they’ve learned about this person on one hand. The number of times she’s felt the need to draw a blade, however, are countless. While they don’t seem to be Grigori, Maka is wary all the same.

Over a small fire’s glow, they pass on info they claimed was told to them at the last town. “Yeah, beasts made of living, breathing metal. It’s probably a rumor, but it’s scary enough to make me cautious.”

“Wouldn’t want to be caught by that if they were real, huh?” Soul adds. Maka glares at the horizon.

The traveler laughs. “Ah, you get it. You should too, girlie,” Maka clenches her fist around her dagger’s hilt. “Metal, you hear? That means that dagger, sword, and halberd you carry wouldn’t have a chance of hurting them. Bet they’d just shatter in a single hit. It’s a nightmare, even for a seasoned ranger like yourself.” She shivers at the travelers words, that look, that ceaseless smile.

“Good thing we’ll be out of here soon. Got to make a stop in Caem, so we’ll be heading south tomorrow morning. It was good to have the company, but we can’t ask you to go out of your way.” Maka barely stops herself from raising an eyebrow at Soul, but she trusts him just enough to not contradict. Her mind spins with confusion until Soul’d hand settles lightly on her shoulder. _Oh_.

The traveler narrows their eyes, “Before you said—”

Maka interrupts, “Our destination hasn’t changed, we just have an unusual route since I’m working a couple of jobs at once.”

“Too bad. Guess we should rest up now, then. We’ve both got some tough journeys ahead.”

Soul’s eyes flick to the stranger’s axe, the way their hands linger on the hilt. “Don’t think I can sleep tonight. Go ahead and doze off, I’ll keep watch,” Soul promises. The stranger stares, but Soul doesn’t give any ground, glaring statue-like into the shadows around them.

Maka hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Soul says with a voice gone soft. “Get some rest.” So she curls up a few paces away and falls asleep to the tempo of Soul tapping gloved fingers against the ground.

—

“Wake up!” And Maka shoots up in an instant. Just because she’s up and has one hand reaching for her short sword doesn’t mean she’s taken in the situation yet, so she finds herself rolling out of the way from an axe-strike before she registers who is swinging it. Experience helps her parry the next hit without pause. It doesn’t matter who this is, she can do this.

“Ranger!” Suddenly it registers: Soul is here, she has to protect him. No sooner does it hit Maka than she sees Soul jump in front of her, blade coming straight at them. Soul grabs the traveler’s arm to halt the blow mid-swing, and her body takes advantage of the opening before her mind has caught on. The traveler stumbles back unconscious with a short sword in his side and a kick to his head.

The battle is over before she’s even felt sleep leave her bones. They work in silence, Soul gathering up their gear while Maka cleans her sword and stares at the blood on her gloves and coat.

“Can you heal?” Maka doesn’t know which answer she’d prefer.

Soul’s look darkens. “With great cost.”

She raises her halberd above the traveler’s neck and doesn’t miss the way Soul turns away. “Okay,” Maka whispers. “Let me finish this, then.” Soul flinches at the sound of metal meeting flesh, but he’s also by her side a moment later. Peeling white-knuckled hands off her weapon and speaking soft sweet words that roll off her like rain. “I’ll keep you safe,” is all Maka says because she means it. 

—

“You don’t have to look out for me, Soul.”

“I know.”

“It’s my job to protect you, not the other way around.”

“Okay.”

Maka glances at his face and catches the corner of his lip turning up. She returns the smile. “By the way,” she starts, “Don’t you spend all your time reading books and drawing fancy circles? How did you hold them back?”

Soul scoffs. “I don’t know. And ‘fancy circles?’ Really?”

“Don’t change the subject.” But Soul had already moved on to telling her about how circles weren’t really the point. Maka doesn’t think she’s ever heard him say so many words in a row, so she allows her focus to shift as his low voice floats around them.

—

One day, Maka stares into Soul’s tired eyes a moment too long and is left with the impression of red behind her eyelids. Red reminds of bloodstains, and her mind conjures up images of that person looking up at her, her robes already annointed with blood. The barrier magic is broken, and Maka grabs their wrist and _pulls_ —

“Feeling okay? You look tense,” Soul’s voice rips her out of her thoughts.

Maka hums, “Just remembering something.”

She thinks it before she even registers the thought: maybe saving someone like this godforsaken alchemist is what they wanted.

_

Calling Soul Evans an open book would be patently incorrect, so sometimes Maka is surprised by the tidbits he mumbles when the sun goes down. Perhaps it’s comfort of the darkness cloaking them as they huddle around their campfire, looking like they might be the only people in the world. Perhaps it’s exhaustion from their constant trek wearing him down. Either way, he’s almost impossible to hear. When he speaks, he speaks low and quiet and short. Maka swears she misses at least half of everything he says, and it’s getting on her nerves. It doesn’t help that she’s trying to maintain small talk while rifling through her pack.

“So alchemy, huh?” she begins, awkward as can be. “How’d you start practicing? It’s not particularly easy for humans to get into. Wait, wait, let me guess. It’s the family business.” She gnashes her teeth at the absolute mess in her pack and digs deeper. “It’s always the family business.”

Soul watches her with amusement, so Maka grumpily focuses on her task. “No, I tried to be what my family wanted, but I ended up somewhere else,” he pauses, “and the occult has always come naturally to me. Like it was in my blood. I guess it kind of is, after all.”

Maka looks at him over her shoulder. “Did you say something?”

“You were right, it was family.”

For once, hearing she’s right doesn’t placate Maka. “Can you speak a little louder next time?”

“Hmm,” Soul taps his chin, “No.”

Maka is ready to punch him, and settles for swearing under her breath. “Are you always such an asshole, or is it just the running for your life that’s making you be insufferable towards the one person actively trying to keep you alive?”

“Pot. Kettle. Black,” he points accusingly.

With a cold laugh she calls his bluff, “ _I’m_ not the one getting death threats. Or if I am, it’s because of you.” The absurdity of the argument sinks in, and Maka’s laugh turns warm.

It’s infectious, and Soul loses all composure, too. “Oh, so you’re always an asshole then?” he manages to get out between gasping for breath.

“Yes! I thought we established that already.” Maka feels her eyes tear up, and wow, she must be tired if she finds their situation this funny. “God, you can’t even be bothered to say the full idiom? How lazy can you get, Soul?”

“Even lazier, I promise,” he smiles, and oh, his teeth look awfully sharp. She guesses she hadn’t seen them before, but Maka’s seen humans involved in the Otherworldly change their appearance to match their craft. Filing bone had to be easier than alchemy.

“I’m begging you to break that promise.” She smiles back, and feels a moment of joy. Immediately, Maka snuffs it out. This job has already brought out enough weakness from her, she doesn’t need a mopey alchemist to make her worse. “Besides, what could be lazier? Not speaking at all? Or just ignoring when your bodyguard oh so kindly asks you to repeat yourself?”

Soul chuckles, “Fine, I get it. All I said was that my family didn’t want me to be an alchemist, but spite might have been the biggest push in the end.” She hums in reply, she’s seen this story a few times. “Good enough?”

“Mmhmm, I can relate.” His white eyebrows raise with questions, and Maka continues before he can voice them. “I’m a disappointment to my family, too. Wasn’t supposed to fight. Then when my dad accepted that, it was about me taking a job he didn’t like. I was scared at first, but I think you’re right. Rejection made me more sure of my choice.” _For better or for worse_ , she thinks.

“Ah, so we’re both assholes, _and_ we’re both immature. Good to know.” 

Maka crawls around the fire to sit next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Guess so,” she chirps, “And don’t give me that look. We’re bonding over our poor parental relationships. Besides, I’ll be able to sleep a lot better knowing I’ll feel it if someone tries to murder you in your sleep.” He rolls his eyes at her, but Maka doesn’t miss Soul leaning into her side. “Okay?”

Closing his eyes, Soul lays his head against her shoulder. “Sounds good.”

—

It must be a shout, but amid the noise it sounds like a whisper.

“Please, leave them alone. I’m right here.”

“Are you okay?” Maka says before her mind catches up with her tongue. When she turns, it’s towards the spellcaster crumpled on the ground to her left. Her first thought is wondering why hadn’t they killed her when they had the chance. She grips her sword tighter. Maka’s second thought, she voices. “That’s some kind of shield spell. You—you’re not hurting anyone.” No one ever told her there was magic like that. It’s the kind of unassuming thought that ripples through her worldview in an instant. Suddenly, the little pieces of her that always felt hesitant make sense. Her father’s career and subsequent alcoholism, warning words. The way her mentors had answers for every question she was never supposed to ask. She always wanted to protect, but this? This is not it. Everything collapses with those words. The shouts of her company closing in snap her out of it, and Maka sees the world shrouded in the red of her rage, the orange and gold of the burning town, green envy at the realization her enemy has been in the right all these years, the gaping midnight blue of the night, the violet sheen to this magic shield.

Soft, pink hair. Grey, frightened eyes. A spectrum of emotion she can’t process in the lightning-strike moment she feels it. Her decision is just as fast.

So she slashes at the Otherworldly barrier and hisses, “They’re coming. I can’t help you if you stay here.”

“Wha–”

“Let’s get you out of here,” and with a cry the barrier shatters and dissolves. Maka steps immediately into the circle the spellcaster’s barrier left in the ground and holds out her hand. Footsteps beat closer, and the spellcaster sits in shock. But she won’t rush this, Maka knows it can’t be her choice alone. And their shaking hands and tear-stained face? That’s her doing. It’s her fault, and she can wait.

They stutter, “Wh-What about the town?”

“I’m only one person,” she frowns, “but they’re after you. If they see you leave, they’ll pursue you alone.” Just as the first of Maka’s company spots them, the spellcaster weakly grabs her hand. Maka pulls them to their feet and runs, looking over her shoulder to watch her allies-no-more eyes widen. When their gaze meets, she doesn’t waver. She does not hesitate. 

The rest blurs with time and tears, but Maka’s memories has preserved one part with clarity: “I think there’s some other people who could use your help, don’t you?”

Maka starts awake to a cloudy night, face wet and shaking. Someone is breathing softly next to her, and it takes a moment for her mind to remember that this is not a dream. That it’s not the spellcaster, but Soul. By the time the sun comes up, she’s fully back in the present. Soul’s groggy eyes linger on hers for just longer than normal, but he let’s them get back on the road without a word.

—

In Ramada-Toki it’s the guardsmen on the walls who talk: “There’s something hunting in those woods that can’t be stopped by any weapon. Lord knows we’ve tried. It always ends in blood.”

Upon arriving at Sieben they hear from a friendly bartender buying groceries: “Yeah, out by the plains. Folk tale says on the full moon you can see a creature that sparkles like quicksilver. No one’s ever caught proof.”

A teenager tells them about a farmer who lives half a day’s walk from Cauthess: “Eyes like steel, that one. No one ever believes me, but I swear their eyes were brown before the accident. They should’ve gone blind. Don’t know how they didn’t.”

Maka takes note of each local rumor, even if she gracefully backs herself out of anyone asking for her to take a hunting job. Soul holds his breath and wrings his hands every time they enter a new town. She suspects it’s more than coincidence. 

All of this to say that when Maka finds herself with a sword through her side, forced to the ground by five— _five, damn it_ —Grigori high guard, she both is and isn’t surprised to see Soul summon iron from deep within the earth and slash through their attackers with instant, fluid grace.

“Get out of here. Now.” Maka’s words make him jump and lopside the circle he’s carefully constructing around her. Soul’s scowl deepens, but he says nothing while he redraws the line. “Reinforcements are already on their way. You need to run, Soul. I won’t be able to move fast enough to escape and I can’t hold our ground well enough here. I can’t protect you.”

Maka grabs his chin and pulls Soul’s eyes away from his work. She can see his pupils narrow in the split second before she speaks, the split second before he cuts her off. “I’m not going to just leave you here,” he argues, wrenching himself from her grip. 

Desperate to break his attention, Maka grabs at him again, removing the pressure on her wound to yank his hair with both hands. “That’s exactly what you need to do, you—”

“Why are you so sure there are more Grigori coming?” He snarls, ripping her hands out of his hair and pushing them both back to the wound with enough force she cries out. “Why are you so sure they could stop you?”

“Because I was one,” she screams. The tears sting, but Soul’s wide eyes hurt more. “Maybe I’ll always be one.” Maka sobs hard enough that the world blurs. She feels Soul brush his hand over her forehead as keenly as she feels her blood flow out of her, but Soul kneels close, holds her still, and ignites the circle with the flick of a dagger. The flames burn black, and Maka thinks she almost catches him flinching as the burn rips through her. 

The haze clears as she feels her flesh knit back together with unnatural speed, so her words pour out faster than blood. In this moment, Soul is both anchor and confessional, and Maka cannot stop the memories, apologies, seeing every death she remembers causing. She cries into his shoulder until the bleeding finally stops. Then they run.

“Soul, I saw what you can do.” He cringes, staring into the ashes of last night’s campfire. “You’re what everyone’s afraid of.”

“No,” he bites back with the ferocity and fear of a cornered animal. “Maybe I’m what most _humans_ are afraid of, but the Otherworldly? We’re afraid of people like you.”

Maka whispers, “I know.” And she remembers the fear in those grey eyes, bets the fear was present in all of her enemies before she ever noticed. “The reason I’m not with the Grigori high guard anymore, it’s because I finally realized that. I was sent to kill a spellcaster of the moon. We went after the whole town, so the village was already burning and they looked so scared, I just. I just couldn’t do it. Didn’t matter because they were killed anyways.”

“Hey—”

Her eyes water, so she stares at the sky and pretends it’s because of the morning light. “I saw their eyes when I met you.” Soul frowns. “But I’ve also seen you scowl and laugh and blush, and it gives me hope. I think I’m learning that maybe we can both be more than what other people expect of us. Even what we expect of ourselves.”

There’s a moment of wide-eyed softness on Soul’s face before he rubs hands across his face. When she reaches for his left hand, it’s the first time he doesn’t pull away. He watches her with one eye still covered as she slides the glove off and sees deep, dark, sleek metal. Feels it smooth and shining like polished quartz. Maka clasps his hand between hers, and is shocked to find a pulse. A little pressure reveals that the metal flexes and bends just like tendons and flesh. Lifting it to her face, she examines it so closely her breath condenses in the chill air. Finally lifting her eyes from his hand, she catches the serious tilt of his eyebrows trained at her.

“Can you feel—?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he exhales with the sharpness of steel, the razor edge of his teeth just behind parted lips. She lowers their clasped hands with a blush.

“So it is occult metallurgy. You can turn things into moving, _living_ metal,” Maka confirms. “You’re the source of the rumors.”

“I guess. I just make things people need,” Soul explains with a shrug.

“Like?”

“Like limbs,” he waves their clasped hands. “And eyes. And teeth. Tongue a couple of times.”

Maka scrunches her face up at that. “You’re messing with me now.”

“I’m not.” 

“I guess I wouldn’t want to not talk, but,” Soul licks his lips, and it’s dark and shining. She freezes, “Oh.”

Soul sighs. “Was born without the full arm. Tongue was because of some angry people thinking I cast spells.”

“Grigori,” she says. It’s not a question. 

“So what if it was? You aren’t responsible for everything.” Both glaring, they sit in silence until Soul rests his chin in his hand. “You know, I’ve gotten work for some more normal things too; like locks, armor, shields. Haven’t worked with weapons before. Normally avoid it, but if you’re interested…” he trails off. Bashful might be a good look on him.

Maka perks up, “Is that so?”

Soul pulls her dagger from his pocket and tosses it from one hand to the other, before flipping it to point at Maka. “How about I try it when we’re not running for our lives.” She just musses up his hair, and watches his sharp, toothy smile return.

—

Every step they take closer to Morir, the cover of the forest wanes. Even though she knew it could not be avoided, Maka dreaded the fact that there was nothing to be done but survive. Her worries become real on a rainy midday when an arrow zips by her head. Scanning the horizon shows no good places for cover across the grasslands, and she isn’t carrying ranged weapons even if she could spot each archer. “Run,” is almost out of her mouth when she sees Soul kneeling to the side. Maka slides in front on him before she can think, watches him carve symbols into the ground, and press his fingertips to the edge of the circle. It erupts with a spark, as brief as it is bright, while the silver coins in the center shimmer into the ground. A wall shoots up behind her fast enough Maka almost loses her balance as the earth shifts.

“Got you cover,” is all Soul says.

“Good let’s—” Maka feels something wet where she grabbed his side. When she pulls her hand away it’s covered with thick black fluid. “What is—I think this is ink? I didn’t even think you had any ink on you right now.”

Maka looks up to see Soul’s skin gone ashy. “Um,” Soul stammers, “Maybe I left some in my pack by accident.”

“But it doesn’t smell like ink,” Maka mutters to herself. She pushes her hand back into the dark spot staining Soul’s shirt; this time she doesn’t miss the way he flinches. “Are you—” her mouth is moving faster than her brain, but she connects the dots when she sees Soul look away. He knows he’s been caught. “You’re bleeding. This is your blood. It’s—”

“Black. I know,” Soul shoves her away with more strength than she knew he had. He’s scowling and hunched over like a cornered animal, but the pain in his eyes weakens the threat.

“You aren’t human.”

Years of experience and battle-worn instinct hone in on the way he moves his right hand into his coat, no doubt reaching for the dagger she gave him. “No, I’m not.”

Maka sighs, “I don’t know how to heal anything but humans, but we should probably stop the bleeding, right?”

“You aren’t going to try and kill me?”

“It’s my job to protect you. No matter what.”

She stays still until she sees Soul’s shoulders drop, tension dissipating. “Thank you.”

Maka puts her hands on his shoulders and whispers, “Of course.” She keeps eye contact until it is uncomfortable, but silently begs him to not break the gaze. He doesn’t. Maka swears she can feel the moment it moves from uncomfortable to intimate, something in their spirits echoing in harmony. It carries over when the archers close in, no match for Maka’s confident halberd even without Soul’s aid. They’re back on the move a moment later.

Later, they settle on the edge of the desert for the evening. Soul lays on the ground and draws symbols in the dry dirt. “I’m sorry I called you a killer.”

“When? I don’t even remember.”

“When we first met,” he looks up with a smile, “though it seems like it made a bigger impression on me than you.” Maka stays quiet. “How are you doing?”

“Honestly?” she asks. He nods. “I’m furious. You could have gotten us in a lot more danger. And I’m sick of being lied to.”

Soul grumbles, “What was I supposed to do? I mean, I’m sorry I hurt you, but I don’t think the truth was safe.” 

“It wasn’t,” Maka agrees. “I think you did the best you could. I can still be upset.”

Quiet spills between them, enough that Maka almost thinks she can hear the grains of sand hissing in the wind. “What would have changed if you knew from the start?”

“Everything.” Soul laughs joylessly, and Maka replies with a nervous smile. “I probably wouldn’t have helped you if I knew. And I think I’m really glad I did, as much of a pain in the ass as this has been.” Maka reaches out to him, “As much of a pain in the ass as _you_ have been. So why don’t we start over?”

“Start over?” 

“Nice to meet you, my name’s Maka Albarn,” she chirps. “I love sunny days, tea, and books. I’m really stubborn and short tempered, especially because I’m still a little afraid of the Otherworldly. I’m also from Grigori, and I used to be one of their high guard, so I’ve done a lot of things I wish I didn’t. I can’t ever undo it, but I’m trying to repair what I can now.”

They sit quietly until Soul sighs. With a lopsided smile full of sharp teeth, he pulls off both his gloves. Running a hand through white hair, the metal looks even darker, his eyes more red, his skin more grey. This time, Maka doesn’t worry. “Alright. I’m Soul, uh, Evans. Took a while, but I like playing piano. Working with metal’s my specialty and I spend most of my time on things that make people’s lives easier. I’m scared of storms and Grigori.” Soul smiles,“Think I’m getting better, though.”

Maka props her chin in one hand and speaks with feigned innocence. “I think we’re heading to the same city, right? I could use a change of scenery. Would you like to travel together?” 

Soul chuckles, “Yeah, yeah. Seriously, though, don’t you have to go back to get paid at some point?”

“I talked with Blair. Pretty sure I’m not getting paid for this.”

“Wait, what—”

“Feel like making it up to me by buying me dinner when we get to Morir?” And Soul stiffens in an instant. Maka blushes. “Too forward?”

“N-no,” he stammers, “I mean yes, but it’s okay, I uh. It’s you. So it’s good.”

“Oh.” She replies. “Thanks, I think?”

“‘Thanks?’ Who says thanks to that?”

“Oh, shut up. Like you were doing so much better.”

“I was ambushed by your, your _confessions_!”

She stands up, “Look, if we’re going to keep doing this, we aren’t going to sleep; might as well argue and walk. We’ve still got awhile to go before we’re safe.”

“Fair enough.” Soul gathers their camp, before pointing back at her. “Wait, don’t change the subject.”

“I wasn’t–”

“This is ridiculous,” he laughs. And before she realizes it, Maka’s joining in. 

“I don’t think I’ve laughed this much in a long time. And it’s only been a few months.” Soul puts a hand on her shoulder, and this time Maka returns it. “Let’s stick together, okay?”

“Partners?”

“Partners.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Wait," you may be thinking, "does Soul Eater really need a fantasy AU when the source material is already a fantasy world overflowing with the supernatural?" No, no it does not. <3
> 
> I've been thinking about Soul Eater for years, and one of the main surprises for me plot-wise is that even though demon weapons are at most a handful of steps away from being the very world-destorying creatures they fight, no one in their world seems to care. Their culture also operates on a pretty binary good-evil, too, so it's not like they are taking demon weapons as like a necessary evil; they see them as indisputably good. And even though we have Angela and eventually other things (manga side; no spoilers!) that break that binary later on, I've always enjoyed the idea that demon weapons aren't universally liked. If you are reading this, you probably—like me—think Soul is best boy. However, we gotta admit that his character design could stand out in a spooky way if you don't get to know him (those TEETH could kill, oh dear), so I wanted to play it up from there. But Maka? She always sees through him. And he's always got her back.
> 
> (P.S. Exactly one of the town names is borrowed from another fantasy world because naming places is hard in a fic like this where I do minimal world building. Think you know which one it is and/or where it's from? Leave a comment!) 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Have a lovely day!


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